


He Knows, I'd Love To See Him

by Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard



Series: Flower Rain Outtakes [2]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Dima being mopey, Hanahaki Disease, Jealousy, M/M, Surkov being a cheeky bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22788715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard/pseuds/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard
Summary: Is that really happiness?Is he truly happy?His heart is content seeing that happiness, while the flowers suffocate him more.A resigned smile blooms on his face.(Flower Rain Outtakes #2)
Relationships: Dmitry Medvedev/Vladimir Putin, Vladimir Putin/Alina Kabaeva
Series: Flower Rain Outtakes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632760
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	He Knows, I'd Love To See Him

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have to be honest here; actually, the Flower Rain series is my first foray into Putvedev, and I mainly write Slavadev. I have more drafts of Slavadev fics than Putvedev ones. This story might be an indulgent outtake for me, but the fic is still Putvedev don't worry. 
> 
> If you want to talk to me about my fics and other stuff, you can follow me on twitter! Username is @GabrielEyerolls. I have to apologise for my tweets because its a mixture of Ruspol articles, fan arts of the Chinese BL novels that I like and some random venting about Graduate School.
> 
> The title of this chapter came from Morrissey!  
> I think I might base all of the Flower Rain Series (Dima's POV) on various Morrissey or The Smiths songs. I mean who else to give this story a bit more angst than The Smiths and Morrissey :D

He shouldn't be here. Dmitry Anatolyevich fidgets in his seat and is starting to lament his thoughtless decision. He does not know what possessed him to arrange a meeting with Vladislav Yuryevich in this quaint Georgian restaurant. This restaurant is where Vladimir Vladimirovich often takes his KGB friends or his new flavour of the month. A self-deprecating smile appeared on his lips as he realised that the president never took him here during their...he's at a loss on what actually to call it.

_Ah, what do the Millenials call it? Friends with benefits._

From what he heard, it is a typical bustling restaurant, but it is disconcerting that its devoid of its usual patrons. He overheard from the staff that the president will be dropping by today, and they had only let him in because they assumed that he is a part of the president's lunch meeting. They did not have the heart to kick him out when they found out that he's not included; probably afraid to lose a potential high-profile client. He grabbed his wine glass and took a small sip; alcohol does calm the nerves. A hand snatched his glass away from him which startled him, he looked up and saw brown eyes twinkling in mirth and an amused smile on Vladislav Yuryevich's face.

"You're late," he told the presidential aide who merely brushed off his comment and sat down on one of the vacant chairs.

"So sorry, your highness. I do hope you knew that I live away from the city centre, unlike you whose flat is just a few metres away."

 ** _'Such an insufferable bastard.'_** he thought. He held out his hand and looked expectantly at Vladislav Yuryevich, but the man chose to ignore him and took a long sip of wine from his glass.

"My wine, Vladislav Yuryevich."

"No. Besides it's terrible for you, your medicine clashes with alcohol." Vladislav Yuryevich mockingly purred as he drained the glass and refilled it.

"Can a dying man enjoy a glass of wine with his Georgian style chicken?" he sighed as he put his hand down on the table and laced his fingers together.

The presidential aide hushed him and started to look around to see if there are any staff around that might hear that statement. When he made sure that they are the only ones in the dining area, Vladislav Yuryevich let out a sigh of relief and drank the rest of the wine. He settled the glass gently on the table, and the soft clink seems to vibrate throughout the whole room.

"Dmitry Anatolyevich, what are you thinking when you chose this restaurant? The staff babble everything that they hear to their boss, who in turn, tells it to the president. Also, Georgian? I thought you hate anything Georgian."

"That's a misconception, Slava. I hated a Georgian, but he's no longer one is he?"

Dmitry chuckled as he remembered Saakashvili's fate and how giddy he is when he typed that Facebook post gloating at his statelessness. The man is a massive pain in the arse during his presidency. Volodya was apoplectic with rage when the war broke out, and it was only through his interference that Saakashvili's blood did not grace the streets of T'bilisi.

_Volodya? He has lost the right to call or thought of him in his diminutive. And, as they say, speak and thought of the devil, and he shall come._

His chuckles died as his breath hitched on his throat. His heart is erratically beating as if it's an agitated bird; he can feel the roots in his lungs, expanding further—a myriad of tiny arrows piercing the hapless organ in his chest. The president's icy gaze pinned him down on his chair as he strode inside, and a horrible pain lances through his heart, aggravating the sensations on his chest further. The person hanging on Vladimir's arms confirms the rumours that he refused to accept. Alina Kabaeva smiled warmly at him, and he tried his best to plaster a genuine smile on his face.

The presidential aide noticed the grimace on the prime minister's face, and he turned around to see the cause. He stared head-on at Vladimir Vladimirovich's questioning stare, he tilted his head slightly and offered him a small smirk in return. Vladislav Yuryevich returned his gaze to Dmitry Anatolyevich when the happy couple walked past them with their server guiding them towards their table.

He sighed as he saw the resigned smile on Dima's lips, the drop of blood peeking out of the corner of it and his shaking countenance as the prime minister stifle the blooms making its way up to his throat. He rubbed his face in frustration as he realises that the man in front of him has no sense of self-preservation. He's sure that seeing the president and his new wife aggravated the prime minister's disease, speeding it up and chipping away a few more days out of his numbered months or years. Considering that Dmitry Anatolyevich is drinking wine before his arrival, he deduced that the man did not take his medicine that keeps his symptoms at bay.

He crossed his arms to his chest and glared at the downtrodden prime minister. "You went here for this? For fuck's sake, Dima. You're either downright stupid or masochistic."

The prime minister opened his mouth to speak, but a trail of blood spilt out of it. Vladislav quickly grabbed his handkerchief and wiped the blood hastily from Dima's face. He studied the positioning of Dima's chair, and he let out a sigh of relief that the president's vantage point is merely the prime minister's back.

"Is-is it wrong to confirm the rumours? Is it-t wrong to see hi-him hap-py?"

He almost did not hear Dima's barely audible questions. His sad voice and those dull blue eyes imploring him to prove that the prime minister is not wrong from seeking out the president and ensuring that he's happy. He grabbed Dima's right hand, squeezed it gently, and his thumb grazes the pale skin in a comforting manner.

"Have you forgotten that the rumours around our murky world are often the truth. While the ones that we present as truths are carefully weaved lies. The secret that you hold dear is an indisputable truth, Dima." he told the man gently. Dima merely gave him a wry smile and stared at the window to hide his glistening eyes.

"I am such a fool, aren't I."

He's about to re-assure the prime minister once again, but he is getting distracted when he felt someone's furious gaze directed at him. He turned around and saw Vladimir Vladimirovich's icy gaze barely concealing its fury. A light bulb spark in his head, he wants to confirm if his eyes do not deceive him, and he needs Dima's cooperation. Steeling himself and donning his stage actor persona, he leaned towards Dmitry Anatolyevich to whisper in his ear.

"Dima, can you indulge me? I want to confirm something."

He looked at the president's table and saw that the shrew that he brought with him is preoccupied with her phone and ensured that Vladimir Vladimirovich's attention is solely focused on him. The president is holding his wine glass tightly, and those hawkish eyes are devoted to watching his every move and a sneer curling his lips at the man's hypocrisy. Doesn't drink, yeah right.

_He's going to give the man the greatest show of his career as the political stage director._

"Wha-" when Dmitry Anatolyevich turned his head around to face him; he saw it as a chance to enact his plan. He lunged to give the prime minister a peck on the lips, and he saw those dull blue eyes widening in shock, and felt him freezing up when his rough lips connected on those warm thin ones. His eyes silently asked for the man's forgiveness and begged not to slap him. He broke the kiss quickly when he heard a wine glass shattering from a distance.

"What are you doing, Slava!" Dima hissed, but he gave him a victorious smile.

"Come on, let's get out of here. The president dearly wants to sink his fork into my throat."

He places a few rubles on the table, stood up from his chair, grabbed the prime minister's arm, dragged him out of his chair and paced towards the door. On their way out, he made sure to intertwine his hand with Dima's, and the temperature of the restaurant dropped even further, as the aura of cold murder emanated from the president, a few tables away. He turned around and gave a mocking wave to the fuming Vladimir Vladimirovich whose hand is drenched in a mixture of his blood and wine.

They started to trek back into Dima's apartment quietly; he knew that the man is upset with him from the stunt that he did. He cleared his throat and finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

"I apologise, Dima. I merely made an idiot realise his feelings," he muttered, and he is taken aback when those dull blue eyes glinted as though it were freshly polished sapphires as fury lighted it.

"You don't understand, Vladislav Yuryevich. I do not want to beg him for scraps of affection, why do you think I was adamant about sticking to my fate? It's not because of fatalism, no. I am sick and tired of being a passing fancy for -"

The prime minister fell to his knees and started spewing out those accursed crimson blooms. He went down to support Dmitry Anatolyevich; however, the man swayed and slumped into the pool of his blood and red spider lilies. He lifted Dima into his arms and continued to mutter his apologies to the unconscious man.

_He could still live_  
_And yet..._  
_But he understood_  
_It is tiring to be a passing fancy, after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!  
> Until next time!  
> 


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